


Comfort

by weirdlittlecookie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3x24 coda, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdlittlecookie/pseuds/weirdlittlecookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda for 3x24. Takes place about a week later. Peter's POV.</p><p>Peter finds Lydia from a tree, it's a little confusing at first. Then just sad. Then maybe something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched Kill your darlings in the middle of the night and decided to write a one-off. 
> 
> Naturally, it didn't stay that way. Eh. Eheh. Sorry.
> 
> Anyway, chapter three is the last I swear, another project awaits. 
> 
> There's no condoms but that's cause I chose to believe werewolves can't catch STDs and Lydia's on birth control so, yeah.

"If it's not too much to ask Lydia would you mind coming down?"

Peter leers up the tree, way,  _way_  up, not taking his eyes off the girl dangling vicariously from the branches. He traces her movements, looking for indications of slipping. How the hell she even got up the tree he can't fathom. Her high heels are neatly placed by the base, right next to an empty bottle still reeking of mint vodka. Here, behind the charred skeleton of his old family home Lydia has decided to take in the scenery from the top of the largest oak in the premises. 

Peter shakes his head, more pissed than anything, but unable to move from the spot. If he climbs up to get her and she falls he might not be able to catch her. And since he's been in the woods for days now, he doesn't exactly have his cell to call for back-up. And he can't leave either. 

Well, he could, had he the inclination to live up to everyone's expectations of him. But he doesn't care about that, not right now when even  _the idea_  of blinking sends a shudder down his spine. His annoyance ranks up yet another level as he realizes Lydia has no intention of answering him or, hell,  _acknowledging his existence_. Lydia dips her head low, letting her hair catch a breeze, and the branches slightly object to the movement.

"Lydia! Ignore me all you want but don't be stupid - that really isn't safe!"

He doesn't know if his anxiety made the difference or whether she just emerged from whatever haze she had going on but she giggles,

"ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time-"

"Carl?" Peter wrinkles his nose, brow in a tight line before it smooths out again, _ah, Ginsberg_. He might smile if not for the fact he was still standing under a tree like an idiot. That's when Lydia dips lower than ever and the branches finally break under the bend. With a sharp snap they give up, sending Lydia plummeting toward the ground. 

Peter bends his arms as the weight hits him, attempting to make the landing as soft as he can. He ends up falling on his ass but still holding Lydia tight against him. When he looks down her face is buried in his shirt, knuckles white as they grip the fabric. She hadn't screamed on her way down, and is keeping completely quiet even now. He waits, rubbing circles onto her back and shoulders. When she finally speaks the words are small and muffled,

"They had lilies at the funeral."

It isn't until now Peter notices what she's wearing - a well-cut, black cocktail dress. Her hair is currently falling free over her shoulders but he has a feeling it hadn't been. _It's a funeral outfit. Allison's funeral_. 

"What?" his voice comes out a little weak, shrinking in itself as Lydia pushes in even closer, practically ripping the shirt with the strength she's pulling it. Of all the things he expected this wasn't one of them, he didn't expect to feel gutted by it. 

"Usually a hunter's funeral is decorated with aconites. But Chris wanted everybody to be able to attend. And everybody did." She lifts her eyes to meet Peter's, "Everybody, except you." Her eyes are dry, steely, searching his. He ducks his gaze, staring at her hands while he talks. He can't meet those eyes, can't see the look she will give him. 

"I didn't think I had the right. I still don't." Shame is laced in those words, making his skin crawl. "You didn't need me there as a reminder of 'what-if'." Peter needs to get out of here. He starts to push himself off the ground but Lydia stops him by squirming off his hold, resting her knees on his thighs. She looks at him intently,

"I needed you."

Peter looks at her, unable to track his facial expressions. "I'm sorry," comes out hoarse and completely inadequate. Peter pushes his lips to a tight line, biting his cheeks to ground himself. All he wants to do is wolf out and disappear into the woods again, let his self-loathing melt away to a distant human experience. But Lydia is still a little drunk, and he won't walk out on her. Not again. Squeezing tightly on her shoulders he says a little more leveled, "We have to get you home."

She blinks at him, silent, and then shakes her head. Her voice is steady as she says, "I  _still_  need you."

Peter doesn't know how long they stay there. He keeps their eyes locked as he senses for any hesitation in her but there is none. Her form is resolute and her stare unwavering. With a long exhale he nods, lifting her to her feet. 

Peter helps her slip in to her heels again, and watches as she straightens her dress, wiping off dust and leaves. When she's done she raises her eyes to him, nodding once, "Okay."

For a beat he just looks back before mirroring the gesture, nodding, "Okay," and offers his hand to Lydia. She takes it.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter sees the way Lydia’s brows rise in surprise when he opens the apartment’s door. It’s not Derek place, not nearly as spacious and for Peter the lack of familiar scents irks his wolf.  It doesn’t smell like pack, and his instincts are bouncing all over the place - yelling omega, run. He glances over at her, shrugging his shoulders.

“Derek needed some space.”

“But you’re pack.”

Peter doesn’t look at her, just closes the door and steps away. They’re not only pack, they’re family. Blood means a lot in werewolf world, gets you pardoned for nearly anything. But after all the things Peter has done, after all his character flaws, he feels Derek might’ve finally had enough. So he slinked away before he could hear the words. For a few days he hoped Derek would call him, tell him he’s needed. Even purely because there was nobody else. But no such call came and the image of becoming an omega sank in. So he went a little crazy. Had he been the self-destructing kind he might’ve done something stupid. Instead, he walked out into the woods and wolfed out. That’s how it had been for days, his animal side suppressing any other feelings. His last coherent thought had been a day and a half ago. He’d been sure he was already lost in the wolf permanently when he caught a familiar scent. Lydia’s scent. It led him to the remnants of his old life, yelling up a tree to a tipsy teenage girl. Why she chose to let him help her was beyond him.

He looks around the apartment, not pleased about the fact it’s not presentable. He doesn’t want her to see his personal space like this, as bare and hollow as he feels. He had chosen to stay close to Derek though, his windows facing the familiar building, just in case. He’s sure Lydia has already noted this as she moves to stand in front of them, looking out to the sleeping city.

He looks at her, looks at the rigid line of her lithe shoulders and wonders what is going through her mind. Instead of asking he turns away, saying “I’ll make us some coffee.” And he disappears into the kitchen, leaving the silent Lydia to look out the windows.

He moves around the small kitchen, pulling filter bags from the closet and the fine Columbian coffee from the fridge. He smirks at himself, finding it funny how he still resembles like himself in the little things. Like he was before the fire, even before Paige died. God, he had made such a mistake, convincing Derek she could be one of them. All he had wanted was to make the pack larger, stronger, and it had backfired gloriously. He thinks about that, thinks about the version he told Stiles, wondering who he had actually been trying to fool. 

He lays his head on the cold surface of the cupboard, lost in his thoughts until the coffee maker stops percolating. Snapping back to the present, he pulls out a pair of cups and heads back to the living room carrying hot coffees. Lydia is still standing in the exact same spot, watching the sunrise. He comes to stand beside her, placing the cup on the sill and taking in the scenery.

By nature he looks for dangers, follows people moving along the street below them, before he can’t help glancing toward Derek’s window. There’s no movement and he hopes it’s a good sign, that Derek is merely sleeping, recovering from the bullet hole Kate had left him with.

Thinking about Kate makes his blood boil, how she is responsible for so much that is wrong with their lives. He also hates her for pulling out the beast in him, the monster that has been eating away every last bit of his old self. He hadn’t been perfect even back then but at least he hadn’t been _clinically insane_.

He unclenches his jaw when he sees Lydia looking at him, hiding his eyes in the coffee in his hand. He swirls it around, saying “Sorry there isn’t any milk or sugar in the house. The coffee is excellent quality though, no need to hide the original aroma.” He doesn’t lift his gaze but he feels Lydia’s stare heavy on him, on his face. A surge of anger emanates from her, and he has to steel himself not to cower under it. The fact she has such power is pretty amazing, actually, even if the feel itself doesn’t leave him very happy.

“I don’t want a coffee, did I ever say I wanted a goddamn coffee?” She spits out, stealing Peter’s cup from his hand and slamming it down on the window sill hard enough to spill. “And stop apologizing! I don’t want your fucking apologies!”

Peter bites his lip when he almost apologizes again for not being the asshole she wanted him to be. Annoyed he shouts back “Why are you here then?”

“Oh I think you know.” Lydia says levelled, her eyes boring into his. She stands straight, hands resting calmly by her sides as she steps closer. “I want you to make me forget. Even for a little while.”

Peter’s mouth is dry, his throat feeling too constrained to let out a sound. He watches as Lydia traces her hand along the glass, swaying slowly towards him. Even with her messy hair and smeared make-up she glows, like something too bright for Peter to touch. He shakes his head and steps away from her, back into his own buble. Lydia huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, looking like she can’t believe what she’s seeing.

“Are you kidding me? Now that you can have it you don’t want it?”

“Lydia, that was intimidation - it was _precisely_ because you didn’t want it that I threatened you with it. You never called bullshit.”

Peter hadn’t planned on saying quite so much. It might’ve been the most honest thing out of his mouth for the past decade and the taste it leaves might be even worse than the one already left by the days-long outing. Lydia lets her weight fall against the sill, large eyes fixed on Peter. He fights the urge to rub his hand over the back of his neck, to fidget under the scrutiny. When the silence stretches he snaps, “What?” noting how her form has relaxed, the previous surprise melted into a softer expression. The corners of her lips twitch as she tries to hold the smile at bay until the inevitable happens and she breaks down laughing, shoulders shaking from the force.

“Peter, for all your sociopathic tendencies you manage to be really, _really_ gallant.”

She wipes her eyes, and Peter marvels at the bright smile and shining eyes. Something knots tight in his stomach but he ignores it in favor of offering a grin of his own. The quiet is lighter now, like somebody let the air back into the room. They watch the sun rise above the rooftops, coffees now cold and forgotten by the window. Peter nudges towards the cups,

“Would you like another one?”

Lydia shakes her head, swiping mascara from under her eyes. She makes a face, disgusted by her own rumpled appearance. Peter however can’t stop staring. One of the dress straps has dropped off her shoulder, the long curve of her neck bare and… “But I wouldn’t mind using your bathroom.” Lydia turns to him, fingers raking through her hair and mercifully having missed Peter torturing himself. Keeping his distance he shows Lydia to the door right next to his bedroom, and quickly turns away when she clicks it shut. He doesn’t make it to the kitchen before he hears the shower, ramming his head against the door frame. _No no no_ , he can’t have Lydia Martin in his home, naked. No. With one last thump and a deep inhale he presses off the doorway and to his cleaning cabinet. He stacks eight different cleaning solutions on the table, trying to decide which surface he wants to clean first. He looks at the bottles and sprays, remembering how Derek had looked at him funny for having four. _But you can’t clean an oven with an all-purpose, not if you really want it to be clean_ , he had said and Derek had just walked away. He guesses this is the nice part about having his own space, he can have as many detergents as he wants. Or soaps. Hair products. That Lydia is probably using right now.

He grabs the degreaser and buries himself in the oven.

 

-

 

After polishing every visible counter and surface in the kitchen he stops before the urge to move the oven overcomes any remaining bit of rationality. He doesn’t hear the shower anymore, doesn’t even remember hearing it turn off. Tentatively he pads along the hallway, feeling like a guest in his own apartment when he realizes the bathroom is empty. A trail of wet foot prints lead to the other door. He pushes it open and finds Lydia curled up on the only luxury item he currently owns. She’s buried herself deep within the crisp white sheets, fast asleep, wet hair braided to keep from tangling. He sighs, looking at her peaceful expression for a moment and moves to snag a pair of fresh boxers from the drawer.

Peter shucks off his clothes, dropping them directly to the trash can. No amount of detergent could work out those stains. A gratified moan escapes him when the hot water hits his skin and he starts scrubbing. It takes a moment for the water turn clear from all the grime, buried deep in his nose and ears. He doesn’t want to think how it got to his other orifices.

Avoiding the towel Lydia used he dries off and dresses. He takes a second to just stand by the door of the bedroom and then steps in, laying himself quietly over the covers. He listens to the steady breathing beside him, letting all the tension fall off his shoulders. He tries to think back to the last time he had shared a bed with somebody. Whether it had felt this nice.

A hand goes over his chest and a sleepy murmur orders him to get some sleep. He smirks.

“Yes ma’am.” He closes his eyes but doesn’t sleep. Instead, he memorizes the feeling of that silk-soft arm curling over him, that warm breath tickling his ear. There's no way to escape Lydia's scent now but he'll take it, he can suppress his instincts long enough to enjoy this. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Peter doesn’t wake up until the sun is high up in the sky, bright light pooling in from the window and making him squint. For a moment can’t place himself, can’t figure why he’s sleeping in a bed instead of the old Hale house. Then something moves beside him, or rather, squirms half-under him and it comes back - Lydia in a tree, Lydia falling off a tree. Lydia wanting him, him turning her down. And apparently dry-humping her in his sleep as a sign of true chivalry.

They’re tangled together, his leg snuck between hers, broad shoulders shadowing hers as his hand circles her protectively. He doesn’t know how he had gotten under the covers but he had and he mouth silent thanks that Lydia is dressed.

But she’s dressed in his shirt, surrounded by his scent and it’s driving his wolf mad. The one he hadn’t controlled for days and is even currently aching to surface. So Peter doesn’t blame himself when he buries his face in the back of Lydia’s neck, taking in the sweet smell of flowers and their mixed scents. His eyes flash, canines elongating before it hits him. He’s treating her like a mate.

The realization leaves him a little cold but not nearly enough to force himself off the bed and anywhere else. He contemplates whether he could muster enough will power to lunge out the window when Lydia stirs, covering his arm with hers and then freezing mid-movement. Her eyes snap wide open and she ignores the very tangible manner they seem to be plastered together. Worrying her lower lip she clears her throat,

"I'm here."

Peter nods, "You are." After a beat he goes on, "Any other observations you'd like to share?"

He can feel Lydia rolling her eyes and he smiles, relieved that she seems to be coping just fine. She reorganizes herself in his arms, squirming against him and his senses flair up alarmingly. He needs to get out, _now_. He starts to scoot away and off the bed, to go scavenge his cupboards for anything suitable for breakfast, when Lydia pulls him back. The movement takes him by surprise and she manages hook their legs together again, bringing her entire back in touch with his front. Peter grumbles in frustration, hissing at Lydia,

“I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

“Seriously? You?”

“Lydia…”

“Fine” She huffs but makes sure he’s not moving away by tightening her grip on his hand.

They spend a moment listening to the sounds from outside, looking at the clear sunny day that has rolled around. Peter guesses it's way past noon and he still has an inexplicable need to feed Lydia, make sure she's taken care of. He isn't surprised by it but he is angry for letting it happen. Letting his wolf form a bond with such a young creature. It's not he's that much older but the things he's seen and done make him ancient for something so innocent. Peter sighs and thinks for distractions, any distractions, to steer away from the path his thoughts are taking him again. That's when he remembers something about last night.

“Why Ginsberg?”

“What?” Lydia emerges from her own thoughts, brows knitting together in confusion.

“You were quoting Howl to me last night. Was it to feel even more elevated?”

Lydia swats his hand, the one he still hasn’t managed to move, and he waits for her answer. He doesn’t care if she avoids the topic by another, just as long as she speaks. He just wants to hear her talk, hear the silky sound that feels like she’s stroking him under his skin. He tamps down the shiver when she shrugs her shoulders, saying,

“I guess it seemed appropriate in a way, appropriate to what I felt like. _Feel_ _like_.” She curls into herself more tightly, Peter giving way with his hand for her to do that. “I feel like I’ve lost my faith.”

"In god?"

Lydia huffs, "Please. That there's anything good in the world."

That makes him miserable, knowing he introduced that world to her, and the small "Sorry" that leaves his lips carries so much more meaning.

He doesn’t know what to do so he just holds her, squeezes her hand. She settles, bringing his hand even tighter around herself.

He closes his eyes, tries to go back to sleep but he can’t. He listens to their breathing, the deep breaths and the steady beats of their hearts. He concentrates on the feel of Lydia’s legs against his, every soft slide making his skin tingle and the small hair stick up.

Lydia’s hand travels up and down his arm and she squirms lightly in his hold. Her breathing turns more labored. Peter hears her heart hammer loudly against the rib cage, mirroring his. When the scent of arousal hits him he nearly buckles, practically growling his words to Lydia, “Please don’t.”

“Why?” She’s breathless, working her way closer to Peter, “Why not?”

“You’re too good to me.”

“Stop treating me like I’m holy. I’m not. What I am is aching, aching all over. For you. I want you inside me, I want you to hold me down with your teeth while you fuck me ---”

Peter has her flipped on her back in an instant, stealing the rest of her words by clashing their mouths together. She parts her lips eagerly, sucking his tongue in and meeting it with her own. She bites his lower lip, almost hard enough to draw blood and he whimpers. He envelopes her with his body, trying to touch as much as he can, his hips canting against hers in their own volition.

Before he can back down she wraps her legs around him, rolling her hips up in a slow circle. He groans and buries his face in her neck, letting his nose trail the length of it when he gets the sudden impulse to taste it. He draws his tongue over the same route and Lydia's breath hitches, her hands clamping down and scraping his back. The taste is incredible but the thought of getting Lydia so flustered is the real turn-on. He trails her neck up and down, mouthing her shoulder as far as he can get with the shirt still on her. He nibs the skin before planting his mouth tightly against it and sucking hard. 

Lydia whines, bringing her hands to his neck and head before sliding them down his back, pushing his boxers out of the way and grabbing his ass and kneading it. If Peter had any restraint left, it was now lost and he visibly shakes in her hold. He wants to feel her, needs to touch her, make her as bad a shaking mess as he is. Trailing his hand down her side and to her underwear, he thumbs her over the wet fabric. He watches her eyes shut and lower lip disappear in her mouth before the sight gets too much to handle and he removes the thing completely. He pulls off their shirts in the process, needing to see that beautiful skin, feel it against him. 

Sliding back between her legs that go around him instantly, he moves in to kiss her. He brings his tongue over the seam of her lips, gently sucking on the lower as he aligns them. With one steady move he slides in slowly, losing breath at the feel of her around him. She moans, bringing her hand down on ass, hard, and hisses into his mouth, "Move."

Peter hides his face in Lydia's shoulder again, running his teeth and tongue over the worried skin as he pulls back and slams back in. He gasps, starts to build a rhythm, quickly picking up the pace.

Lydia's hands are back in his hair and she moans, writhing against him, feverishly raking her fingers through his hair, keeping Peter's mouth tight against her shoulder. When she gives his hair a sharp tug he bites down, not enough to break the skin but enough to leave a mark. _Mine_.

Her moans turn to loud wails, her back arching off the bed as she comes, hands grabbing his hair even tighter. He gives in, coming right after her, practically whiting out from the force. Every muscle in his body strains and buzzes and he can feel small tears swell in the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall across his face.

Boneless, he falls beside her, closing his eyes as he waits for his breath to catch up. When he opens his eyes Lydia is looking at him, following the planes of his face. Her eyes linger on his mouth before she looks up to him, giving him a small smile. He mirrors it, not sure what she is expecting of him.

"So." Lydia says.

"So." He responds.

"You probably want me gone now?"

"Why would I want that?" He's confused, a feeling doesn't get very often and enjoys even less.

Lydia sighs, seemingly a little uncomfortable but doesn't look away. "Look, you made it very clear you weren't interested but I pushed until you broke. So there's no need for sentimentality."

He chuckles, unable to keep the amusement off his face even when she starts to look annoyed, "Lydia, for the love of god, if there's one thing you don't have to wonder about me then it's the way I feel about you."

He brings her hand to his lips, running them over her knuckles. "Now," he says, his smile luring one out of Lydia, "Would you like to have lunch with me?"

 


End file.
